Animate an arrow on a map. Imbued with all of the cultural sensitivity of an Indiana Jones movie.

Launch in lush Laotian jungle, cross continents and seas, and split like the forked tongue of a serpent, or a dragon, upon reaching the Mississippi.

One end lands in Minneapolis, calls itself Fong Lee, and falls, one weekend outside an elementary school on the beleaguered North Side.

No saint, this Fong Lee, or maybe he was, or maybe it doesn’t matter, when chased on a bike by cops in a squad car.

When rammed, run down, when running like hell isn’t enough.

When shot eight times.

And a gun recovered later has no prints, no bullets fired. Official reports attribute it to the late Fong Lee.

The arrow’s other end lands in Saint Paul, on my roster. This Fong Lee is quiet, yet alive.

His shirt reads “I AM FONG LEE”

Poetry and politics, Shakespeare and Espada, and who knows if Fong has read either man’s work?

This one gets the joke because he tells it, but forgive his lack of laughter: There’s nothing funny about having to know that some kid with your moniker and migratory history was killed by cops not fifteen miles away.

Indiana Jones only had snakes and caricatures of Nazis to contend with. This shit is for real.

An animated arrow splits in two, dead ends, but cannot retract. It must remain, A red stain on a map.

I’ve been sitting on this Word document for the better part of a year, maybe even more, called Northern Poems.doc. The idea, if I remember correctly, was to try to capture in verse something of the idea of Minnesota, whatever that is. I think, to be honest, that it wasn’t even Minnesota, necessarily, but that thing that we in the Twin Cities call “Up North.” It’s a funny thing, really; if you look at a map of Minnesota, you’ll see that the Minneapolis/Saint Paul metropolitan area is located in the East-Central part of the state, and maybe even hovering just a little bit south of that designation. That means that places like Hinckley or Lake Mille Lacs become “Up North,” despite their considerable distance from what might be called Northern Minnesota.

Geographical innacuracies aside, there is something kind of wonderful about getting out of the city and pushing into that part of the state that is not prairie but woods and lakes.

I remember reading Tony Glover‘s liner notes on the Jayhawks’ 1995 masterpiece Tomorrow the Green Grass something along the lines of “these songs are Minnesota” (if anybody can provide a link to these online I’d be grateful), and it changed the way that I listened to that record, which, for what it’s worth, is still one of my favorite albums ever.

I don’t expect these poems to gain such wide popularity and/or endurance, and I’m actually fairly insecure about my poetic dexterity, but even so, I offer these Northern Poems.

As a final note, the irony in these poems is that they seem to celebrate a certain warmer something than the seven degree temperature that’s here today (which is to say nothing of the windchill, of course…). I think fellow Minnesotans will agree that we endure winter in order that we might be able to breathe in the more temporal beauty of our state’s more temperate months.

* * *Promise

There is a juniper berry between your thumb and forefinger And birchbark in your voice. I will build us a canoe. Your laugh will be the oars, Stirring up the depths As we make our way.

In time this lake will freeze, The snow upon its surface Crunching under heavy boots. At these temperatures, No one questions the integrity of ice.

We will walk without purpose for a while, And you will lay in the snow, Arms and legs working together To make a snow angel, And your laugh will echo across the granite.♦

Crepuscular

The air is wet and full of pine. A tawny miracle stirs not twenty feet away. Eyes meet, a question mark against birch and fir, Answer: hooves push off for safety.♦Resorting

The lake dark and shimmery, Sky reddening as the sun Says, “this is all you get, But not all there is. Also: this is spectacular.” We stand silently, a vigil To its departure, emptying As it goes.

You say, “well, Should be getting back,” And a spell that stretched From the eastern shore of Elbow Lake To a distant spot below the earth Snaps, component parts Lighting up the night like fireflies.

I say nothing, and we walk slowly The worn path to the cabin. “This is everything,” I say, Hoping to stretch something. The air is sweet with wildflowers, and You laugh your laugh, Which I also have to tell you is everything, Say, “it is?” and kiss me under the porch light.♦

New Morning Poem

Astringent air blows in with morning, Wet sand like witch hazel. My breath lingers just there, In the space between the workweek and a sunrise, And in the distance, a loon. In another second, both will disappear.♦

Marking Time

When the last of the whiskey is gone, Secrets buried in the yard Roll over to get comfortable. You rub your bleary eyes, View the world through ragged pouches, And listen to the crickets. A million little metronomes, Keeping pace of life up here, Restless legs more symphony than syndrome.

Sloshing spirits can’t bring him back Forty-five years on, But the crickets, tiny and dependable, On the smell of the tall, wet, grass Fold time in on itself.

On the long walk back from the ballfield, He strutted in the road, just next to the shoulder, “Tony Oliva will be Rookie of the Year.” You, younger, afraid, dependent, Straddled the seam between pavement and dirt, Kicking a rock that you found by the park, Trusted he was right.

Headlights now, and you want to yell “look out,” To grab his waist, to pull him near you, But he is gone, and they fall across the kitchen, A million pieces of glass, future sands, Upon which tomorrow’s insects scurry.♦

Vermilion

This island pulls radio From Hibbing, Some nights as far away As the Cities, North to International Falls, Atikoken. Those clear nights, You sit with CBC Radio One On your grandpa’s old transistor Pale ale and a map That came with the cabin.

How easy it seems, Those clear nights, To pack up the truck And drift north, Slipping undetected Into a foreign land The way radio floats On the wind.

How many gas tanks, How many portages To Winnipegosis? Or in the other direction To the great Hudson Bay, To the sea?

Greenland and Iceland Become mere stones, Breaking laws of physics, Skipping across the surface Of the sea En route to Edinburgh, To Ireland.

Grandpa’s transistor, A six pack of beer And a map, And you’ve traveled the world From a cramped lakeside room That smells of mildew.♦

Out

Amidst moss and wet leaves, Little room for worry. There’s the smell of the earth: No small comfort.

Soil in the fingernails Signals a day spent well. The dock your father built, Forgotten paperback Left behind years ago, Both weathered now.

WITHIN (Scroll and click below for The Shuffler, Essays, Poetry, and more) :

WITHIN (Scroll and click below for The Shuffler, Essays, Poetry, and more) :

BIO

Daniel Muro LaMere is a teacher and writer from Minneapolis, Minnesota. He writes about music at thisistheshuffler.wordpress.com.

ABOUT

Most of what appears here is poetry, with some essays and other writings. All work should be considered the intellectual property of Daniel Muro LaMere and copyrighted as such. The author knows zero about intellectual property law, but is married to an attorney, so watch it.